The Dish Best Served Cold
by WrittenLyre
Summary: Bayley has been one of the victims in a series of kidnappings. This ignites a vengeful Sasha to hunt for whoever is responsible. What she never predicted was the mess in store for her as she gets involved with FBI operations, and one stubborn officer named Becky Lynch. Burdened by the weight of the past and the will of the present, how will Sasha cope? (Becky/Sasha) 4HW included!
1. Chapter 1: The Girl from Skid Row

**Author's Note:**

I haven't written anything in six years. Haha, they've all been soul-draining academic papers. So trust me when I say the fear of jumping back into creative writing and having graduated for a non-creative degree recently is legit. But WWE and its relatively small community of writers inspired to contribute and try my hand at writing again. So there's that! I hope you enjoy, and please go easy on me!

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**The Dish Best Served Cold:**

_Chapter I_

_The Girl From Skid Row_

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Sasha couldn't feel any more shady and unsure about herself than she does right now. Sitting anxiously within the heavily tinted windows of her rather unassuming Ford Focus all rolled up, it's just the waiting game at this point. She's spent weeks trying to get to where she is right now. Following a different hundred of black vans that match an obscure pair of numbers that were barely recognized by a memory in trauma was no easy task. It feels like this time it's a match.

Taking a sip of her coffee, she glanced at the clock that palpitated 12:32 AM and then at the rearview mirror. _Holy crap_. Bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks, and smudged mascara from 96 hours ago - when she last slept. The adrenaline has dwindled but the blur of speeding cars and the fragmented concentration couldn't convince her to take a break.

_It doesn't matter, _she told herself, her left hand wrapped weakly around the stirring wheel and the right - restlessly situated by the glove compartment. _I'll be able to sleep once I get Bayley back, _she promised. If anything, it was more of a prayer. A prayer alright, to the .38 caliber pistol now tucked within her right hand, for it to magically be able to do the miracle she desperately needs to be done when the time comes.

The black van a couple of meters away from her started moving, the vehicle now packed with cheap fast food meals, and hopefully a lead that will point her towards a warm body.

Sasha has been maintaining an interval of a medium to long distance between her and the van for about an uneventful half-hour. Its activities seemed suspiciously normal: a spacious car that's to travel far. Too far, in her opinion. And as if her thoughts are jinxed, the van drove towards a seedy neighborhood - one she's not unfamiliar with. People hardly forget places that made them.

These were the streets that marked a spike in her heartbeat every time the sky went a little bit darker as the clock hits past seven. You'd think that this wouldn't be her reaction now that she's twelve years older, lives a couple of districts away, and has a couple thousand miles on her passport. The black van maneuvered towards a trail that led to a worn-down establishment that looked like a tug between a warehouse and a public garage. Her heart skipped a beat. The quiet of the neighborhood and the lack of cars surely gave her away. This time - it was like she was sixteen again.

How much time does a second thought costs? No matter how fast she would be able to weigh the impact of each option she has in this narrow situation, she wouldn't be able to race with a split-second. The split-second that can equip her with the advantage of being able to move first. Possibly the split-second that separates her from Bayley. She could be suffering and a split-second more could break her. But a split-second of mistake and the lack of information can cost Sasha everything. If Sasha was anything apart from impatient, she was wise.

At this point, at least she knows to flag this van.

Sasha drove past the block and drove to the nearest house in the neighborhood that she might've been remotely familiar with. "Goddammit. Lowkey hope Naomi still lives here," she muttered, in a tone that could almost be mistaken for a curse. Without hesitation, she pulled over towards an empty lot that stood opposite of where she remembered was Naomi's house - deeper into the heart of the neighborhood. Unburied hatchets and ungodly hours be damned.

She knocked. "I'm home," she feigned - desperately putting up an act to be as normal as possible; trying blend into a neighborhood that used to describe who she was so perfectly.

"What the fuck?" A disgruntled noise ventured, its sound descending alongside lights being switched on. As the footsteps reached closest to the door, about six locks were opened - leaving one, the door chain, which allowed the person on the other side of the house to peak at who was their visitor.

"Sasha?" _Disbelief. Of course._

"Naomi." Sasha stood, completely still.

There was a moment of silence between the two women, abruptly cut off by Naomi's attempt to shut the door at Sasha's face.

Still high on residual adrenaline, Sasha was quick to catch and stop this attempt. Holding out the door firm enough to rival Naomi's force, which left the door slightly ajar. "Before you say anything, I just need you to let me in. Please." Her voice begged, but she was careful not to let her body and expression betray her facade.

Somehow still able to recognize the cower of an old friend with a weathered face, Naomi unlocked the door and motioned for Sasha to get in. "10 minutes, then you're leaving."

"That's all I need."

Both of their guards still up, they settled by the cramped room that was a compound between a kitchen and a dining room. "I know I don't deserve to ask for forgiveness or whatever," Sasha stammered, unprepared for this untimely confrontation. "Look, I just need to hide for a quick bit. Bayley's been kidnapped and I've been trynna' track down all these black vans and," she breathed anxiously, "-and I think I spooked em' as it was pretty fuckin' obvious that I was tailing them when they drove down here."

"_Bayley_, huh," Naomi emphasized. "Know what? You're lucky I'm far more decent than you Sasha." She relaxed into a bold posture, her arms crossed and chin high. "_You people_ are unbelievable. This shit 'been happening for years around this hood and the only time the world cares is when you boujee motherfuckers start giving jackshit is when ya'll asses are up."

"_You people_?" Sasha snapped, the venom in her voice evident. If it wasn't the lack of sleep, it was definitely because of the othering and the blatant disregard for what was once a sisterhood. "You damn well know that I care. If it wasn't for-"

"For what!?" Naomi challenged.

"Nevermind." Sasha stopped herself, aware that this was the worst time to have this conversation. "You know what, ten minutes are up." She took her bag and headed straight towards the door.

Naomi leaned firmly against the spine of her worn-down plastic chair, "You ain't fooling anybody. Everythin' bout' your style has changed but you're still the same, Sasha." Determined to get the last word this time around, Naomi stood up. "You still can't hack _respect_." Just like that, the door was tightly shut and Naomi's house was filled with dead air.

If it was fear the drove her out of the neighborhood all those years ago, it was pride that drove her out of Naomi's house and back into her car. "Have to say I'm surprised there ain't scratches on you baby," Sasha bitterly chuckled, eyeing her car as she entered the driver's seat. "It's okay, that's all the time I needed to lose _them_."

Determined to get out of the mess Sasha dragged herself into and back into her investigation, she slowly drove away from Naomi's block to get to the exit. The tension has slightly declined from when she first entered, but her mind's still directed at her mission at hand. Time was not on her side and her odds were wearing thin. It was difficult to walk away from the opportunity to get closer to finding out about what the hell happened to Bayley, especially when the opportunity was sitting in front of her in the shape of a black van. Still, if she managed to alarm those people - only god knows what could happen to her, or worse, Bayley. She had to get home and investigate the van's connection with the hood, she reckoned this to be an adequate amount of information in just one night. So, if time wasn't on her side, she tried to make sure that speed was.

Indeed, speed was on her side up until the point at which a disabled pedestrian slowly crossed the street a few meters away from her. _Fuckin' crip! Can you be any slower than a birdbrained bimbo? _Her mind tactlessly spat. Sasha stepped on her brakes instead of turning in an attempt to avoid the pedestrian and risking a thousand-dollar accident and a deadly delay on her schedule; confident on the pull of her Ford Focus. So when the brakes didn't work, she was dumbfounded.

"Fuck!" Sasha screamed, louder than the sound of her bumper crashing towards a tree half the size of her bumper when she swerved in panic.

She felt hot liquid trickle down her face from her forehead and she swore it could have been sweat, but her blurring vision seemed to state otherwise.

_No… _

People say that near-death experiences subject humans to a moment where their life flashes before their eyes. So why was it that, in the minutes leading up to Sasha's blackout, it was Bayley that governed her intermittent consciousness.

When she left the darkness of Skid Row for a fresh start in Hollywood, it had been Bayley that kept her straight and exposed her to an entirely different world - knowing full well that Sasha probably wasn't a person to be trusted. Because she might have left Skid Row but the place never really left her - at least not for a couple of years. Surely, it was difficult to slide into the routine of work, laundry, bills, and Friday nights without having to constantly look over one's shoulder. But Bayley had been there. To them, normal was the watchword.

She had to snicker because it was a beautifully vivid panorama. Beautiful in a way that only a person who's had Sasha's past can appreciate. She's so sure that she's in a state of delirium. Everything was so bright and warm and she could just fall into it.

A rabbit hole, an endless mirror hole.

And fall into it she did.

* * *

Sasha's eyes fluttered, struggling to remain open with the blinding white lights that were too intrusive to be comfortable. Not to mention the cacophony of wheels rolling on the tiled surface, beeping machines, and quick-paced yet hushed voices reminded her all too well of where she was. _Ugh, not again._

When she raised her arms to touch the dull ache at her temple she noticed that her left hand was infused with an IV drip. "F-fuck, the bills." She felt like she rolled her eyes but she wasn't sure if that was executed properly. As if she had the strength to form full sentences, she spoke, "Take me home - greedy bitches I have work to do!" her voice ebbed.

"Whoah dude, watch the language!"

_Huh? That's familiar._

"There's way too many kids in this E.R. for you to be talking like a sailor."

_Could it be? No. _

"Can't give- two shits bout' these o'ergrown squirts," she really did try to strike a conversation, convinced that she was neither heavily drugged nor speaking in gibberish. Really, at this point, the only perception she could rely on was her hearing - stiff neck, hospital bed, and all.

The voice turned into a faint figure and the figure turned into a side pony-tail and a very familiar smile.

Her heart jumped.

"You've racked up quite the bills sis', but even I have to admit that's better than having to bail you out."

Sasha flashed a million-dollar smile that possibly no living artist could properly capture. And if words could encapsulate the abundance of emotions that threatened to burst out of her chest, she wasn't able to find those words. Instead, her face felt hot with tears. "Bayley…"

"Sasha." Bayley held Sasha's arm and Sasha swore that she could've melted. "It's been a while."

"I'm so relieved, what happened to you booboo?"

"It's such a long story Sash, and I swear I'm going to tell you once you're all healed up." Bayley occupied the small empty spot by Sasha's bedside. "For now, you gotta focus on making sure you heal okay? You're concussed Sash, and the doctors said that you have to stay here for a bit."

"Take me home this place smells like sanitized death," Sasha whined. It felt good though, falling back into old patterns. Just like how the world's supposed to work. She relaxed into her bed. If it weren't the painkillers that snatched the pain that formerly pounded at her head, it was definitely Bayley who did. She could get used to this, getting sick and being taken care of. It's not every day that someone like Sasha gets to lay back.

Bayley abruptly stood from where she was sitting. "Oh shi- I forgot to run an errand today! Sash I'm going to be quick, else my boss is gonna kill me."

"Wait!"

It was almost too late. Sasha was able to stop the woman who was half-a-foot out of the room. "Oh, and Sasha… come find me and stay alive."

And just like that, Bayley was gone.

_What!?_

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**Author's Note:**

Thank you for reading this far! Comments, violent reactions, constructive criticisms are very welcome. I love communicating and talking to the WWE fans/writers/readers in this site and sharing thoughts. Oh also, there's going to be some Becky next chapter. Stay tuned!


	2. Chapter 2: Point of No Return

**Author's Note:**

Thank you for all the follows and favorites, really warms my heart. I procrastinated the research paper I was paid to do because I couldn't get this out of my head. Haha! I hope you enjoy.

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**The Dish Best Served Cold:**

_Chapter II_

_The Door Before We've Passed the Point of No Return_

* * *

A full splash of a bucket of cold water jerked Sasha into consciousness. "Bayley!" She yelled, the rude awakening starting to sink in as she realized that her voice was muffled by a piece of cloth tied tightly around the lower part of her face. The part that's getting too uncomfortable from the moisture that came from either blood or water. It's become harder to breathe as Sasha spent a good full minute trying to wiggle out of the ropes that gripped her wrists mercilessly.

She can't say that she hasn't been in a situation similar to this, it's just that it's been a while. That's why when the tightness of the ropes started to sear her flesh, it goddamn hurt. Pain is different when it's self-inflicted; when it's from gym memberships and MMA rings and all the thousands of establishments in Hollywood that are in the business of vanity.

Just a little bit more. She could taste escape, and hopefully clarity for when she has an allowance to understand her predicament.

"I hope you had fun trying to escape," a voice came out of nowhere, which was eventually followed by a masked figure and a gun pointed at her head. "Stupid bitch."

It clicked. Of course someone was watching. It was either the concussion or the fact that if she would guess, it would've been more than a hundred hours that Sasha's spent awake - which hampered her from being able to put two and two together. It's funny, up until now she still feels like a living excuse. She mentally kicked herself and she swore she could almost physically feel it from being roughed up earlier in the night, "Who are you?" Her hiss hit futile against the cloth wrapped around her face, triggering a sharp pain in her twitching temple.

"I could kill you," he chuckled. He tucked the gun back into the holster and squatted awfully close to a panting Sasha. The man in the mask raised his fingers and swabbed it at Sasha's bleeding temple. "But it looks like you're doing quite a good job of it yourself. _Sweetheart._"

He held Sasha's bitter stare for a good eon, blood dripping from his fingers and his mouth locked into a smug grin. "So I'm just going to enjoy the ride." And if there were any thoughts in Sasha's head that indicated a reasonable expectation that Bayley hadn't been hurt if these were the people that took her, it flew right out of the window the minute that the masked man licked his own fingers and applied pleasure on Sasha's temple as his left hand clasped at her face.

The room was permeated with a high-pitched screech.

Sometime ago Sasha laid flat on the couch half-asleep to an episode of I Am A Killer. Despite this, she didn't need to watch the entire documentary to know that not all criminals are created equally. That some intend to inflict torment, that they get off to some sort of morbid exploration.

If this were the people Bayley's dealing with, then the clock is ticking faster than she thought.

Sasha wasn't the strongest of people, but she's definitely held her own in the past. Counting on luck and running on pure instinct, Sasha sprang up with the chair still attached to her wrists and did a hundred-eighty-degree roundhouse towards the masked man, utilizing the chair as a weapon - the element of surprise knocking him and Sasha flat to the ground.

The atmosphere that surrounded the masked man changed. When he attempted to sit up, still obviously sore from falling incorrectly; Sasha caught the green of his eyes disappear, but if it was a look of danger or panic - she wasn't quite sure yet. Not wanting to take a chance, Sasha used every ounce of core and leg strength she had to squat up, just to throw herself - chair first - at the recovering assailant. The weight of the chair pinned the man's shoulders which consequently lunged the chair's apron hard towards Sasha's lower spine - the pain reverberating over her entire body, forcing her to curl up in a fetal position.

Seeing Sasha distracted from what looks like her second injury, the assailant took that moment to struggle out of her and the chair's hold and reach for the gun that flung towards the floor when Sasha attacked him. This attempt caught the corner of Sasha's eye, half-blurry from the blood gushing out of her temple - likely strained from the amount of physical pressure. She forced herself to feel better and rolled over to the masked man's right arm, which elicited guttural groans and forced the masked man's hand to lose his grip.

_Good, _she thought - rolling further, the band around her mouth and the ropes around wrist now loose enough to struggle out of. It took a little bit of time, but she was able to stand up. Now was probably the best time for Sasha finish the job and make sure that asshole doesn't see the light of the day. Just as she was about to get take the gun from the ground, the assailant groaned.

"You wanna know what we did to her?" He licked his lips.

Her blood ran cold and all she saw black. Sasha picked up the gun and catapulted it far from the property. "You think you're funny? Lay. Off. Bayley. Got it!?" She drew the chair and slammed it repeatedly against the assailant's face. Never mind that the growing puddle of blood on the floor was unrecognizably hers or the assailant's. Never mind that she felt like fainting soon. And never mind that her heart was beating so fast she could hear her own pulse that she couldn't hear the sound of sirens closing in.

All she managed to feel were different hands dragging her away from the body that she intended to break, her vision growing dimmer, and the sound of footsteps scurrying away from the site.

* * *

Sasha's eyes jolted open. White lights, white room, and the scent of disinfection. She was definitely in the hospital. Only this time, it's only her eyes that could move and as it scanned the entire room; there was no Bayley. The room was private. It was complete with a television, a table, a sofa, and a blood pack to match. In an attempt to sit up, she managed to alert one of the nurses that happened to pass by.

The nurse rushed to Sasha's aid and helped her up, "Ms. Banks…" she read the clipboard. "Let me get you Dr. Shelby." The nurse read the clipboard that was attached to Sasha's bed and checked her vitals before rushing outside the hospital room.

Hospitals were awful. To a lot of people, it may just be _the _place of inconvenience, monthly check-ups and bad news. _Bad news, huh_. Every time Sasha's gone to the hospital for herself or for others it's always been bad news: incompetent doctors and expensive bills. Nothing was more true to her than the idea that somehow corruption and greed creeps up in the important seats within the healthcare industry. But it didn't matter, she's known their trick. There's always going to be an effective alternative to anything that hospitals could do. Hospitals just exists to sell overpriced stamps of legitimacy to be cleared for basically anything. Besides, she does _know_ some people - albeit not having talked to them in years. So she better get out of this place before she gets charged three months worth of rent for spending another day.

"It's a relief you're awake," the voice revealed a bald doctor that looks suspiciously well-kept. "You've been asleep for a couple of days, and we suspected, a couple more. You're a fighter. My name's Dr. Shelby."

"With the crash and head injury you've suffered we were so worried that you'd be on comatose," one of the nurses perked. Dr. Shelby glared at the nurse whose name tag indicated Dana and mouthed something incoherent.

_Fuck. Right! _Realization settled in her jagged consciousness as picturesque memories flooded her mind. She shifted with unease, the beeping of the electrocardiogram picking up the pace of her epiphany. _Bayley, holy shit. _"Where's Bayley?"

"Bayley?"

"How long have I been asleep," Sasha's breathing hitched as she furiously attempted to peel the tape from the IV drip and blood pack needle. "I really _have _to go…"

"Ms. Banks you're going to have to calm down or you're risking more trauma on your body," Dr. Shelby slowly approached Sasha, cautious not to shock her.

Having successful peeled the medical tapes away, then she moved closer towards the blood pack and the IV drip to start working on the needles. That was when two of the staff rushed towards her and pinned each of her arms to the bedside. "Let me go!" Sasha shrieked, intent to give these men a run for their money.

"Please, listen Ms. Banks. We're going to resolve this situation in two ways: either we tranquilize you or you stay put. And I presume that you don't want to be unconscious again, so I'm going to have to request for your cooperation."

Sasha wasn't sure when the tears started to roll from her eyes but the bandage around the side of her face that started from her temple felt wet and heavy. She raised her palms in defeat and her arm landed on top of her head, palms open - covering her face in defeat. "I'm so tired, please don't."

"Thank you," the doctor nodded at the staff which they took as a cue to leave. "Now if you're distressed or confused, the situation's going to be a lot clearer. I promise." He stepped towards her bedside, both hands on his pocket. "I know it may feel overwhelming, and if it does, just ring the staff," he pointed at the button placed just above the bed's headboard, "then we're going to come. But for now, you have a visitor."

On their way out, Sasha could vaguely hear Dr. Shelby lecture Dana about something. When she heard the word 'stressing the patient', she knew that they were talking about her. But who could have been her visitor? Surely no one would be narcissistic enough to make the the doctor prep her for their entrance. Additionally, she didn't have many friends. It was probably the personality, people just didn't like being bossed around, especially when you're not in a blatant position of power. _Crossed too many people too._

Her thoughts came to a halt when heavy footsteps carried a red-haired woman towards her room, lips puckered up - ready for a fight. _Well that's new. _The woman wore a tank-top that revealed arms that looked powerful enough to knock some people out, but feminine enough to compliment the face that the body carried. Tight leather leggings hugged her thighs pretty well, too. Sasha couldn't help but appreciate. She, however, made no mistake - the woman looked like danger.

"Okay," Sasha raised her arms. "I get it. I'm gonna give you your money back." She jests, determined to set the tone of whatever the hell this is going to be.

"Sasha Banks," the red-haired woman sat on the couch just below the television - boots firmly planted on the ground as she leaned forward, hands clasped together. "You've got quite a reputation under your belt. I would've been surprised if I didn't see it for myself."

_See it for herself?_ "I don't know what you're talking about or who you are," Sasha sat up, mildly alarmed. There's a long list of things she's done wrong the minute she was born into the world; and an even longer list of people she's crossed."But if you're not gonna' get to the point then leave me be, I need enough stre-"

"Rebecca Lynch, FBI." The redhead stood up and leaned closer to Sasha, flashing her badge. "Informally, friends call me Becky. I've just yet to decide whether I'm goin' to allow ye' to call _me_ that."

Sasha sat up. If she there was little reaction to this woman's entrance, there was one now. Sasha couldn't decide whether to panic or get pissed from the ego of the woman in front of her. Surely, only important people could be this proud; but then again, she of all people would know better than that. Truthfully, she would have thrown down if she wasn't so rested and tired at the same time, and if it weren't for the ridiculously thick accent that kept slipping mid-sentence. Instead, Sasha opted to stay silent - motioning for her to continue talking.

"I'm here about the incident that brought you to the hospital and not straight to prison. You almost killed a man."

Now she's got Sasha's full attention. "Almost?" _The bitch is still alive!_ "At least tell me that you got him."

"I've no obligation to tell you about our operations," Becky declared. "Although I came here to take a statement from you. Because _you, _on the other hand, are obliged to tell me what happened." She relaxed into the couch. "-And spare no details."

It was a couple of months back when kidnappings started to happen all over California and its neighboring states. It had started with hookers, night-shift workers, the lower class - creatures of the night. Cities had fragmented reports and the police weren't too concerned that the events may have been tied. The country hasn't dealt with a nationwide-scale conspiracy in a long time and it isn't ready at the moment. The issue just started to gain heat with the authorities three weeks ago when an upper-middle-class singer, Elias, got kidnapped in one of the safest streets in the state. Of course, this gained the ire of masses.

"Look, I'm not sure who you think you are," Sasha began, making sure that each word that rolled out of her mouth was emphasized, "but you're an idiot if you think you can threaten me. And I don't trust idiots." If it was possible for her to lean any further and hold Becky's stare, she did. "If I did have the information it's going to be mine, and mine alone."

There's not a soul that would forget the blunder that shook the world by a storm. Selectivity in the levels by which witnesses are offered protection according to their identities were exposed, as one of the black witnesses of the case against a homegrown extremist gang had their cover blown - due to the negligence of the agents assigned to the Witness Protection Program. Three days into the controversy's heat, the FBI said nothing.

"I'm sure you don't think you owe me," Becky pointed at the badge that she once again held up, "or us, anything. But the reason why you're here, and not rotting in solitary confinement is _me_. And you _will _give me what I need." She alluded, expecting Sasha to remember what exactly she's done. When Sasha gave her nothing, Becky took her phone and pulled out the picture of a crime scene - sullied by a large pool of blood.

Sasha glanced at the photo, half-pleased. If there was any hint of panic within her bones, it didn't show. "And you saw what happened to him, didn't you?"

Impressed by the ferocity of a half-broken girl, Becky couldn't help but wonder how she was like healthy and whole. "You're bordering on dangerous territory, I'd be careful of what I'm about to say."

"I don't need you, I can handle my own. Besides, it was self-defense," Sasha heard herself brag.

Becky let out a hearty laugh, not at all surprised by the ignorance of the blue-haired girl. "You can't claim self-defense with the use of unreasonable deadly force. What you did, my friend was assault. And while this could all be argued in court, I'm going to save you the time. Right now, it's only self-defense to the people up there because _I said _it was self-defense."

"The fuck you want!?" Sasha snapped.

"Information," Becky was quick to reply. "Interrogation. It doesn't have to be now but you'll have to get back to me."

"I'll think about it," Sasha deadpanned. "Get the fuck out of here."

The way that Becky left was as heavy as her entrance, it demanded attention. In the absence of the red-headed figure, Sasha couldn't help but collapse back into her bed and bother herself with thoughts of whatever happened to Bayley - and what would be the best course of action moving forward. Whether or not it would be good to involve herself with FBI agent, or FBI at all. There were tremendous risks: the possibility of a blunder, the danger it poses to the rest of her distant friends, and how much it limits the array of options at her disposal on the mission to recover Bayley. All for the sake of reciprocal information that was never guaranteed.

_Fuck, should I gamble?_

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**Author's Note:**

Ooh, there's Becky! Anyway, thanks for riding it out with me! As always, reviews are very much appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3: Getting Tough and Even

**Author's Note:**

Hello! I'm sorry if this chapter took awhile! I've been busy for the holidays and I suffered quite a bit of a writer's block. Thankfully monday night raw and friday night smackdown reminds me to keep going. Thank you so much for the views, follows, favorites, and reviews!

Also note to **Bob the Taco Thief **thank you for the review, I'm glad you're liking the story so far. I really love your work (especially Long Nights) and I was totally fangirling when you reviewed. You're a great author 3

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**The Dish Best Served Cold:**

_Chapter III_

_Winning Means Getting Tough and Even_

* * *

The clutter that Becky calls her own office at the Los Angeles headquarters radiated with monitors that looked like they weren't supposed to be there; dragged out of different function rooms and into the office that smelled like coffee and attempts to not smoke a cigarette. Becky squinted at the monitors, paying attention to the bustling streets of California from seven days ago; each monitor playing a different day.

It looked relatively normal, at least in a way that's very American to the naturalized foreigner who's had relative memory of a quieter hometown. But normal isn't enough, there had to be a piece that didn't quite fit for crises that didn't make sense, to start feeling a little less strange, less _unfamiliar._ With the hundreds of cameras around Los Angeles, and a thousand more from the gadgets that people hold close to their hearts - there _had_ to be clues. Instead, she's been met with contradicting testimonies and a wild goose chase over monochromatic vans.

Becky had not been the best mind in the Federal Bureau of Investigation but what she's certain of is that she had the most focus, the most drive, the most to prove and fight for; and this is what's certainly got her to where she is. However, this short burst of nostalgia was abruptly cut by an obnoxious ring.

"Yes, Michael?" Becky answered her phone, unbothered to even hide the annoyance that dictated her tone.

The man on the other side of the call smoothed into his pitch, "Becks! Just the woman I'd like to hear from." She winced at the nickname. "So you know how we are at Los Angeles Today, we've got eyes and ears everywhere."

"Uhuh," Becky drawled, entertaining the rest of what the journalist was about to say - if he was even credible enough to be called as such.

Her phone buzzed with a notification of a picture being sent to her. "Check out the picture that I sent you, and so I'd just like to know if it's true - what people are saying. That one of the kidnapping victims had been found and somehow-"

"-Wait," Becky cut him off, checking out the picture that was sent. A warehouse marred by a pool of blood whose owner is someone she's definitely familiar with. A crime scene, and a criminal memory of a lead gone awry. "Where did you get this?"

"-and somehow, they've been badly mutilated. The skinned type of thing, like that Ed Gain story, huh? Can you confirm this? Sources have told me that the FBI is just keeping this under wraps." The reporter spoke, ignoring Becky's question.

Becky stiffened. When the society is effectively paralyzed by national paranoia, there are parasites that benefit from fearmongering. Unfortunately, the brunt of a technology-oriented world and every little brat having a smartphone has been the burden of the FBI for as long as high profile cases were concerned. An unprecedented level of fake news have taken over tabloids for about a month already; people were eager to rationalize the situation, and junk food journalists were happy to comply.

"Michael," Becky patronized, determined to end the irritating combination of morning and gossip. "You know how hard it is to contact me. So the next time you do, it better be good." She ended the call. It's getting harder to stave off the nicotine, especially when there's an expensive box of cigars stored in her office vault for special occasions.

_This one's especially fucked for sure, _Becky thought, eyeing the open vault - just a meter away from relapse.

"I thought you quit?" A voice made itself known, accompanied by the shuffling of papers and a familiar sound of home and masculinity. Becky swore she could hear her conscience speak. "Hunter asked me to remind you of our meeting after lunch."

"Tell the old man I don't need some remindin'," Becky rasped. "Anything I can help you with Finn?"

"Brought you coffee, yeah? You've been looking pretty knackered for the past month," Finn stepped closer inside Becky's office, gently placing two cups of coffee on the spot in the table that wasn't occupied with piles of paper.

"Thanks, just had one though," Becky kept her eyes focused at the monitors.

"It's Irish coffee, with chocolate cake too." Finn dragged a vacant chair towards the side of Becky and sat on it - offering the cold cup of coffee to the unperturbed woman. Clearly, the six years of difference and lack of blood relativity does not prevent the kind of kinship that has formed between the two agents.

Becky softened, relaxing into the chair, she accepted the coffee and flashed a sluggish grin. "You're too sweet."

It had been Finn who inducted Becky into the FBI some years ago. It would have been a win-win situation; Becky had the kind of grit needed by a federal agent to accomplish sensitive cases while the United States would feel a little bit more like home to Finn. Except Finn failed to account for the consequences of too much passion being sublimated towards the job. In the eyes of the powers that be, Becky was treading a very dangerous line between determination and questionable methods.

"So," Finn started. "How's the lead you've been chasin'? Weren't you in the hospital the other day?"

"Oh, _that_," Becky sighed. "She won't give anything, so I - uh, had to get a little creative."

"Creative," Finn echoed bitterly - almost certain of the threats that Becky might have thrown to their possible witness. Almost certain that Becky, once again, might just deliver good results - just not sure if the magic would work this time around. "What did you do Becky?"

The pre-emptive disappointment that overshadowed the gaze of her former mentor made her feel slightly uneasy - if not downright defensive. "Look Finn, it's nothing. Don't worry about it, I got this. Just talked a little, told her that she has to give a statement because she owes it to us that she's safe in the hospital and not locked up."

"Becky, I don't want to tell you what to do. It's your case after all-"

"Look, I really respect you Finn." Becky rotated her stool to face Finn, jaws clenched and eyes heavy with deprivation. "But you're right, this is my case and I'm the one who's worked day in and day out studying everything that happens related to _this_." She pointed at the stack of relocated monitors, files, and incomplete evidence board that embellished her office. "Another second that I don't spend working my ass off is another opportunity for whoever's responsible for all these to take another life."

Finn inched away, unsure if Becky noticed his negligible retreat. "I'm just concerned is all. No one's going to tell you this but I think you might be pushing too hard on the wrong person," he explained modestly. "The lass just barely survived a kidnapping, got a potentially life-ending beatin' - and according to her file she's after the same people as you are. Don't push her Becks, she might valuable."

Some years ago, Becky was a name that rolled off the tongue of most bartenders, addicts, and local gangs. It had been a name uttered either out of fear or reverence - but it was in no way dignified. Sometime ago, Rebecca Lynch was an agent of rage that left a trail of destruction in her wake. It didn't matter who, where, or how insignificant a transgression was. Becky collected. And she was starting to collect the ire of an increasingly alarmed local police. Finn knew that the scorn of a grieving sister belonged somewhere better than the narrow streets of Dublin. Her family saw a daughter quickly turning into a delinquent; Finn saw potential.

"If you read her file to the end you'd know how slippery she can get." Becky tried her hardest to not sound smug, perhaps in respect to Finn's place within the organization. Perhaps in respect to the fact that Finn was probably the only person who knows her well enough to keep her in check. If anyone was to be granted an explanation, it was him.

"She's our only lead." He felt like he heard her almost give up. But characteristically, she persisted. "And it might be her or my fault that the kidnapper was able to get away bloody when we showed up to that warehouse in Skid Row- I just need her to goddamn cooperate. We missed a potentially big lead and I'm willing to chase anything to its bone right now." Becky's tone grew more exasperated by the second. "Look, I know you don't agree with my methods but method is the inch that separates whether a perp is caught before or after there's a new body. We don't even have a body and the missing numbers are piling up!"

Although Finn was undaunted by the agitated woman in front of him, he was concerned. "I know, I know." Finn closed a little bit of the gap that separated the two of them and offered her the warming cup of irish coffee. "It's just that these people that you're starting to step on have lives too." He motioned at the open file with a picture of a blue-haired woman who was with a slightly taller Mexican. "She's got her car crashed, her best friend kidnapped, and is now unable to pursue her own version of justice due to fractures - and possibly you threatening her. Sasha Banks, she was in the same position as you were-"

Finn stopped himself. _So that's it. _"-Wait."

"Is this about Sami?"

No one who was moderately close to Becky would be unable to pinpoint the exact moment that the free-spirited drunkard lost the glint that brightened her brown eyes. When the police rang the Lynch family's doorstep, it took them awhile to get ahold of an inebriated and possibly high Becky. Her parents were out on some discounted cruise, and she was the only left to identify the body. Everyone says and knows that the short second by which she saw her brother's body changed her entire life. But only Becky knew the exact point at which puns had buried themselves deep beneath her soul was that of the police explaining how they were too late to discover the culprits that took and killed Sami. To the autopsy, her brother had been dead for two days. Two days of lateness quickly turned into months of delayed justice - and the police was still late. People had to pay.

"Finn." If a stare could bore holes into a person, Finn would probably be dead. Becky heaved, tongue in cheek. "In what I do, _everything _is about Sami."

* * *

Normally Becky would be paying attention to the inkling of details in general meetings to get a better grasp of the FBI, despite the years she's already put in. However, thinking of what Finn Balor had said not too long ago in her office left Becky somewhat preoccupied. True to the nature of their relationship, Finn had given Becky a surgically low profile advise. He had said a lot of things but what he meant was clear. _Change your method, or this lead will turn cold. _

"Lynch?" Hunter cleared his throat, tapping the whiteboard twice. When she looked up, Hunter repeated himself, "What do we have on the kidnapping incidents?"

When Becky opened her mouth to brief the rest of the agents, Hunter interrupted her. "That's what I was going to ask you. But it's clear to me that your file is more interesting than the rest of what this unit has to offer. So I'm giving Rollins the chance to speak."

She almost rolled her eyes, but that would've been an indication that she cared about the frivolities of the FBI. If Hunter wanted to promote office politics, that's fine. As long as nobody got in the way of her investigations.

Throwing a quick assuring glance at Seth Rollins who had raised his brow to ask for her approval, Seth moved towards the evidence board. "As you all know, we've been tracking different black colored vans that serves the memories of 'witnesses' that have come forward." He fashioned two air quotation marks with his fingers, thinking he was being funny. "The incognito pursuit has led us nowhere. No face, no suspect, no lead. The last operation on Skid Row, as a matter of fact, was probably just some punk who took an interest in a pretty lady and her suburban car."

"_A pretty lady_," Becky interrupted, "who; had no business in Skid Row, had her brake lines so- professionally punctured, had a car crash without anything missing - which, by the way - contains an unregistered pistol."

The entire room paid attention, Seth cast his gaze downwards, and Becky shook her head. "Sound odd to you guys?"

"What's on your mind Lynch?" Hunter encouraged.

"What's on my mind is that we have _nothing_." If Becky had said that out of spite, she was sure that she held herself back enough for Hunter, Seth, and the rest of the agents in the room to not notice it. "But what happened in Skid Row was probably _not _nothing. There's something in there and I need clearance to press and look into it."

Hunter squinted at Becky with furrowed eyebrows, all too familiar with what Becky has been hinting at. Really, it's been a cycle with Becky; premature demands and aggressive methods. "Becky. You know that I need more than a little bit of suspicion. _What do we have, so far?"_

She understood. "Macroscopically, reports of kidnappings that have similar moduses have taken place all around California, Nevada, and Oregon. If we were to make bold assumptions, the first place I'd look into would-"

"The Flair Crime Family," Trish Stratus - who had been silently observing the entire time - raised. "Operations all around those areas, those states are definitely parts of their territories." She nodded at Becky and stood by her side. "Hunter, I've worked the Flairs for quite some time now and I'm going to tell you; it's worth looking into."

"The Flairs have unpredictable moduses but the Flair brand on their lackeys are quite recognizable," Becky reasoned. "If I could so much crack our only lead, that _pretty lady_ who by the way has a name. We might just have a bit of a direction."

"Alright, then. Becky, do what you have to do." When Hunter held Trish's gaze as permission rolled off his tongue, Becky was almost certain that they were sleeping together. _Poor Steph, _ she thought - but she wasn't complaining. It didn't seem like it was that much of a secret anyway.

Hunter broke his fixation as people started to pack up, well aware that this was the last case they'd be discussing for the morning. "Under the condition that you always bring someone from the department."

* * *

Nights have been early in the streets of California. The less bustling city prompted entertainment establishments like bars to get a little bit more creative in pricing - to attract a few of the ones who would brave the streets in the wee hours of the night. That's why when Seth had asked Becky to review the case over a couple of drinks, the Irish inside her was not about to refuse. Who couldn't use a little alcohol to take the edge off?

After ordering a round of Guinness, they settled towards the table at the corner of the bar; just beside the television and farthest from the entrance.

"Hey," Seth started, carrying an apologetic look that didn't suit his face quite well. "I'm really sorry about the meeting awhile ago. I just felt like we had to be precautionary and I have to admit - my delivery was entirely off." This would have been the fourth time he's apologized since the briefing ended. "I wanna' make it up to you."

A sigh escaped her lips, her composure slightly more relaxed as the clock ticked eight. "You can start now."

Her colleague lousily waved his credit card, and Becky couldn't help the smirk that starterted to form in her face as the gesture dragged on.

"Okay, seriously. What can I help you with? I'm your partner Becky, I was there when in Skid Row too."

The bartender arrived at their table with two mugs of the Irish stout that Becky used to swear she couldn't live without. She took a sip, amused at how refreshing a beer could taste like after a long day. "This come with fries too?"

"If you want," Seth shrugged. "Anyway, so what's our game plan? That Sasha Banks lady right? Anything I can do?" He flashed a childlike grin, sounding a bit too eager for his reputation. Seth was primarily known in the bureau for his interrogation tactics. His ability to slip in and out of personalities had earned them a few too many confessions.

"Ya' could use your charm for starters." Realizing that she has finished more than half of her drink, Becky hollered at the bartender for another round. "Here," she took a folder from her satchel and gave it to Seth.

He took in the details of the profile for a good minute or two. "Oooh," he whistled. "That's pretty colorful. We'd probably have to start with motivation. If she's looking for her friend, the question becomes what brought her to Skid Row?"

"Looking for her friend I'd assume. But yeah, why Skid Row?" Becky echoed the question that's been in her mind for quite some time.

"In a Ford Focus no less. My guess? She's pretty comfortable around the neighborhood," Seth pointed at the past police records in Sasha's profile that told of her brush with the authorities a few years ago.

_Why the gun though? _Becky wasn't sure if she contemplated loud enough for Seth to hear but he was quick to follow with a response. "She could be meeting some _people_ and it so happened that she's had previous brush with the wrong people - so, you know, precautions?"

"There's far too many people that could have the motive to off her." Seth sounded cautious. Everybody had to walk on eggshells when telling Becky that she could be chasing a cold lead. "Becky…" He tried to get the attention of the woman looking at her beer like it held the secrets of the universe. "Might be a dead lead, you know?"

"We should at least try!" Becky retorted, weakly, her tone fading as soon as it had fiercely arrived. "She's my only lead."

And if it was the fourth glass of beer that gave Seth the confidence to hold the calloused hands of the redhead, he was thankful that she had been drinking about the same amount to have mellowed out. "I know," he whispered as she slightly shivered at the touch. "We'll chase it okay?"

Becky nodded, momentarily releasing herself from Seth's grasp to down what was about to be her fourth beer for the night. The amount of fluid they've downed for the night left Seth shuffling. "Hold on let me just go pee."

As if on cue, the television beside them that has been playing sports replays shifted into a flash report:

_Breaking News, _the familiar voice of Renee Young announced. _I'm here today in Los Angeles River with the L.A.P.D. for a major discovery found. To those of you who are watching, what I'm about to show you is sensitive news material. This is a warning. Live today at around 8:30 PM the police have discovered the mutilated body of a victim identified to be Hispanic, stands at around 5 foot 6, and has an unidentifiable tattoo around her ankle. Right now the police are asking for those who might be looking for someone who fit these descriptions to contact L.A.P.D. as soon as you can._

"Shit!" What sounded like Becky roaring startled the bartender and the few people that occupied the pub. Visibly flushed, Becky scurried to grab her jacket and ran towards her car. _These fucking pigs._

* * *

When Becky stomped her way to the crime scene, the police weren't too pleased. The FBI getting involved in yet another, possibly unrelated, jurisdiction made them look a tad too incompetent. But Becky couldn't care less. After an eternity of bickering between the local police and the fuming federal agent, they opened the crime scene to Becky.

Bile rose out of her throat at the sight of the woman that lay cold on the soil of the Los Angeles River.

Just as she was about to approach the body, her phone blasted with Pearl Jam's 'Black'. It was an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Is this Rebecca Lynch?"

"I'm really busy right now, could you please call me back tomorrow?"

"It's Sasha…"

Becky stayed quiet, both dumbfounded and overwhelmed.

"I'll send you my address."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

A body huh? Wonder if it's who we think it is?


	4. Chapter 4: Guilty Pleasure

**The Dish Best Served Cold:**

_Chapter IV_

_Guilty Pleasure_

* * *

_"I found you!" Sasha squealed, a little bit too excited to find a familiar face in the sea of haze and bodies that crowded the nightclub. _

_"Hey," Bayley smiled, unable to match the volume of her blue-haired friend and visibly sober as compared to the rest of the crowd. "I'm sorry I'm late." _

_Extending her arms out for a hug, Bayley was caught off guard when Sasha wrapped her arms around her neck for sloppy hug. When Sasha disentangled herself from Bayley, her fingers lingered for a few seconds too long. Bayley knew this Sasha. "Sash… are you high?" _

_"Come dance with me!" Sasha pulled her hesitant friend's hand and tried to drag them both closer to the dance floor. Although the grip wasn't too tight, Bayley struggled to keep her ground and it took her pulling Sasha by the elbow for the girl to stumble back to where Bayley was standing. _

_"Sasha you said you're done with the drugs." _

_"What?" _

_Bayley leaned closer towards Sasha's ear and repeated herself. "I thought you didn't take drugs anymore." _

_"Just a lil' crossfaded," Sasha shrugged. "It's just molly baybay." _

_ It was all strange to Bayley, the way that Sasha is. She seemed to have always struggled in a ping-pong match against vices in juxtaposition to wellness but it's always been under wraps especially when there was no occasion in particular that pushed her to pull a bender. "Are you okay?" _

_As quick as Sasha was able to catch the look of disapproval that crossed Bayley"s face, she was able to offer her a shot. 'Where did that come from?" Bayley thought but accepted and downed the shot anyway. The entire night gave her sketchy vibes, but she shrugged it off and the other shot that Sasha offered - determined to forget her instincts and just enjoy it with a friend. Indeed, if Sasha was going through something - then who was Bayley to stop her from coping? _

_Truth be told, if Bayley's parents were to see her in that place at the moment, they would probably perform penance and ask themselves what was it that they've done wrong to raise a child that buddies up to people like Sasha. While of course she'd retort that Sasha's a struggling soul and that's what 'Christians' had to cater to anyway, Bayley couldn't help but feel that there was due reason in that sentiment. _

_Because to be in Sasha's company was to flirt with disaster; and in their friendship, none of them knew who was going to pull who to the other side whereas both wanted the charisma of the other. Bayley guessed that this time maybe Sasha won; as she downed shot after shot until she let herself run on autopilot, letting the mix of crowd and alcohol dictate what she's going to do for the entire night. _

_The first thing that went were her eyes. The scene unfolded before her in a daze, the motion blur of blue hair that danced right to the beat of the music; begging her to come closer. Each sway of the woman's hips landed her towards different people, a lot of them anticipating the opportunity to be able to hold the temptress that dominated the dance floor. But the eyes. Her body pressed itself against different people but all her eyes saw was Bayley. 'Jesus,' Bayley mindlessly cursed as she met the unwavering gaze of her best friend. _

_Sasha Banks was a trainwreck and Bayley couldn't look away. _

* * *

The empty noise of a television show faded into the background as the high of the blunt that Sasha had previously smoked climaxed. Of course, she missed the flash report that occupied most channels about thirty minute ago. Too busy to pay attention as looked for where she stored the last of her stash that's been hidden since she started frequently hanging around with Bayley at her apartment. That woman deserved the Sasha that was at her best; high in life rather than pot.

But today was different. It was either the trauma or the medicine that kept Sasha feeling twitches around her body. Whatever it was, she knew she needed to calm down and regroup and think about what to do. And upon looking at the bandage wrapped around her head and limbs, there wasn't a lot that she could do.

Call after call to old _friends _and she started to think that history meant nothing to a group that's moved on from you. She wasn't going to lie to herself, though. It wasn't her that they didn't want to help, it was _Bayley. _It was the fact that the FBI and the police had also gotten involved. It was the fact that she was operating in an entirely different world, and somehow that bastard of an agent made sure of it.

They didn't leave her with much of a choice.

Sasha caught herself staring at the ashtray for a good five minutes after she contacted the FBI agent and sent Rebecca her home address. _Yeah right, leave it to high Sasha to make important decisions. _

It had felt like an eternity to register the heavy knocks as someone at her doorstep until she realized that her doorbell had probably run out of batteries.

Groggy eyes met fierce ones when Sasha opened the door, holding it out so open that it felt like she just introduced someone to her own soul.

"I'm assuming you've seen the news…" Becky was met with a dimly-lit and minimally decorated apartment that looked like it's been abandoned for days. A low-volume television and a mess of a sofa greeted her by the entrance it was almost romantic. Upon stepping closer into the living room, it had finally made sense. The familiar scent of a half-lit blunt.

"News?"

"Sasha, are you high?" She grabbed her by the elbow.

Sasha scowled, yanking herself away from Becky and motioning for her to settle at the couch. "What's it to you? You smell like beer anyway."

Becky shrugged, walking over to the couch and sinking deep into it. "Unlike you, I can handle my own." Of course she was referring to the bloodshot eyes that stared right at her haughtily. It was common sense that allowed Becky to pinpoint the height of Sasha's high but it might have been the beer goggles that let her notice how sharp her features are.

There was a reason vice-products were so heavily taxed in multiple states. It catches people off-guard.

Earlier during the day Finn had told her inadvertently that Sasha was and is becoming the person Becky had managed to escape. She knew that feeling, and Becky definitely knew that scent. The room that's only ever ventilated by an air condition that managed to smell like a mix of marijuana, liquor, and fried food. People say that scent is the strongest sense that's tied to memory. And Becky definitely remembered. The fear of futility and the suffocation tied to revenge.

Perhaps the only thing that separated people into opposing sides of the status quo was the fact of their circumstances. Beck blinked those thoughts away, clearly too tired to keep her fiery nature day in and day out.

"So," Becky observed Sasha as she sat a couple of inches away from her. She looked a lot better with the sleep, rest, and possibly the lack of cattiness. "What d'ya have for me?"

"Not so fast." Sasha raised her index finger. "_ Becky." _

Becky rolled her eyes and took note of the contemptuous pronunciation of an unauthorized nickname, amused at how soon she was able to presume that the other women wouldn't be catty. "It's funny how ya got some nerve to snark me out when you're the one wrapped in bandages."

"You won't touch me." Sasha rasped, confident even in her awareness of how helpless she looked. Limping towards the table to take another hit from the neglected blunt, Sasha exhaled the smoke towards Becky. "You need me."

Becky's jaw clenched, and Sasha didn't miss the irritation that crossed her face for a split-second. "You need me," Sasha repeated, "like I need you."

Alerted by the sound of what might be a proposal, Becky sat straight and furrowed her brows at Sasha - concentrating on what she's about to say. "Now we're talking. I'll play. What do you need?"

"'Kay," Sasha exhaled, blinking a few times before allowing herself to speak. "I want to be involved." She faced Becky. Although the guttural tone in her voice convinced Becky of the seriousness that backed up her demand, the weight on Sasha's eyes betrayed how well she was able to sell it.

Becky couldn't help but let out a shrill chuckle. "Lady, have you checked the mirror in the last couple of minutes? Look at you. There's no way you're getting involved." Becky motioned at Sasha's entire body to emphasize her point.

A sharp pain reverberated across Becky's face when she realized that Sasha's palm had struck her in the face. "What the fuck?" For someone that was stoned, Sasha was pretty fast.

"Like. I. Said. Listen to me. I know that you need me, and I'm gonn' be honest - I need you guys to find my-" Sasha bit her lip. "I need you guys to help me find Bayley… And I know that this may seem like I'm asking for a lot but I just want constant communication."

"That's just… really not a lot." As the vulnerability in Sasha's voice revealed itself as cracks in her sentences, Becky pushed back the thoughts of retaliating against the demanding yet already-injured woman. Instead, Becky couldn't help but wonder what was driving this woman's mission to take her friend back. This was a sight familiar when it comes to family members. But almost never for friends. After all, Sami was family.

More importantly, Becky remembered the second agenda of her visit - of course, apart from the fact that Sasha seemed ready to spill. "Look. You clearly want sumthin' outta' this and want to negotiate. We can start with exchanging information."

Efficiency meant a lot to the better agents of the FBI; and manipulation was a tactic that most of the greats have applied. Seth Rollins for one, would have gone through hell and back to exploit a possible lead. That was something both Becky and Seth had in common. But Seth was willing to lie. Becky respected the strategy, it's just that to her a more forward and physical approach to cases worked better. After being led on by the authorities for all the years of her early adulthood, she's sworn against the tactic.

Becky took a deep breath. "I… uh, before anything else though. I want ya' to know that I came from a crime scene and I'm not sure if you've heard the news."

_News. _Sasha repeated the last word that rolled off Becky's tongue. Again and again, until it made sense and finally sunk in. And then, again and again, to fight off the sinking feeling in her stomach that's threatening to eat her soul. The only reason that Becky would mention _any _kind of news was if it was about the attackers… or Bayley.

Sasha took a deep breath, or maybe three but before Becky noticed the panic that slowly crept into her face - Becky broke the silence. "Look I'm not sure."

Figuring out that the best way to explain is to show Sasha a picture that she took of the crime scene of the Latina that Becky thought fit the description of who Bayley was supposed to be. The seconds it took for Sasha to examine the photo in front of her felt like its been stretched to eternity. And if it were Bayley, Becky's work would regress by a lot.

And when Sasha finally let out a heavy sigh, Becky knew that her doubts were confirmed.

"That's not…" Sasha was still shaking, a blunt locked tight between her fingers. "That wasn't Bayley."

Becky had a lot to thank the Irish deities for. For one, it seems like her lead isn't going to be bailing on her anytime soon. Two, is that there's a chance that the top woman she's been trying to track and have spent countless nights researching is still alive.

"So, about the info…"

Three. Was that Becky had this nasty habit of avoiding an awkward situation such as the girl in front of her that's starting tear up from the anticipation and fear that the picture provoked in her. So she looked away. To the window. Where there was a sniper pointed at them.

Becky's reflex was quick to kick in as she pushed Sasha to the ground and took cover behind the couch then below the table. _Four. _The couch that was now empty was punctured severely as cotton flew everywhere.

"Fuck!" Becky carried the injured woman towards a corner in the room that she felt like was out of the sniper's line of sight. "Stay here." If she had any opportunity to catch that sniper - who almost certainly is involved with the kidnappings - this was the chance, and the risk, the golden opportunity.

"Where are you going!?"

Becky ran towards the apartment opposite Sasha's house and couldn't see the masked sniper within her line of vision. Pride could allow her to keep chasing but she had two priorities now that she knows that Sasha is a target. So she opted for her car and dialed the local law enforcement and informed them of the sniper's position so that they could bar the area as soon as possible; perhaps at least three police cars would work better than a running Becky who's risking her lead getting attacked once again.

Second later she was back in Sasha's apartment to scoop up the girl who's stayed in place for the past few minutes that went by so fast. "Banks we have to take you somewhere safe."

* * *

The drive towards Becky's apartment did not take as long but Sasha's fast asleep - it was hopefully just because of the Marijuana. She could've honestly brought the girl to the FBI headquarters; bringing people to her own house still made Becky feel a little uneasy. _Vulnerable. _But Sasha smelled too much like weed and she couldn't risk exposing her most valuable lead to hundreds of people. FBI - but people nonetheless. After all, the fact that Trish had suggested that the Flairs might have been involved has bumped this case into a case of the highest-profile in the pool as of now.

As Becky finished parking, she carried Sasha towards her house and took a minute to contemplate whether or not the girl was going to her bed or couch. As she stood in the living room longer she could feel her biceps burning up until she realized that it was the girl who was burning - and shivering.

_The bed it is _, Becky scoffed but also wondered why she'd allow herself to be so petty. It was, after all, just a bed.

As the Irishwoman lowered the feverish girl towards the mattress in her bedroom, she could feel like tiredness was also starting to replace the adrenaline that had filled her for the entire day. Suddenly the couch seemed like such a comfortable place to sleep in.

Placing a couple of pills and a bottle of water on top of the desk beside her bed, Becky left the room that was frequented by tiny murmurs of the words 'I'm sorry' coming out of the blue-haired woman. "Get well soon lass."

* * *

_If you were that sober friend who drove your hard-hitting and party-rocking friend(s) home then there is no way anyone would be counting your shots for you. _

_Bayley had lost count of three things. The time, the shots she's taken, and the strangers she's kissed over the night. It was exhilarating, reckless abandon - for as long as no drugs were involved, of course. But at this point could she really care? It's like she was so distant and yet so attuned to the way that her body moved. Bayley never thought she would ever possess the confidence she has right now as her hips swayed from side to side at the hands of a stranger. _

_Who's gotten closer and closer that Bayley noticed the small of their hands and the heat that clashed with her own. The slight difference in height as the stranger clasped her from the back and struggle to nuzzle the curve that connected her neck and her shoulders. The way that the stranger's sharp chin was quickly replaced by soft lips that found its way to the back of her ear. And that familiar voice that moaned 'Bayley'. _

_Her world stopped. _

_"Sasha?" _

_The woman hadn't stopped, and when Bayley turned towards her, it was clear why. Sasha's eyes were rolled upwards as a sly smirk found its way to her face. "Hey." _

_It was nothing personal, right? It's a party. People do this shit. Sasha and her were no exceptions. _

_So why did it feel like her heart could soar and sink all at the same time; unable to pinpoint what exactly she was feeling - when what's she's supposed to be feeling is nothing but shallow carnality, like the rest of the sheep in the club. _

_When Sasha went for her lips, Bayley's world was rocked as she jerked herself away from Sasha. All of a sudden the appropriately crowded nightclub felt increasingly claustrophobic and Bayley had to breathe. _

_"Excuse me!" She ran away from an extremely confused and extremely high Sasha and ran towards the exit as fast as she could. Of course, Sasha stumbled her way to chase Bayley _

_When you were drunk and running, everything feels like small distances away so she couldn't really tell that she's already a bit far away from the crowd and was outside the club - way out. But she kept running because it felt good and she could feel like Sasha was just a few meters behind her. _

_Sasha. The cloud that loomed over her perfect life. The one question she's always attempted to bury and ignore. She felt like 'those questions' were the ones chasing after her. And she kept running. _

_When you were drunk and running, you don't really notice things. Like you don't really notice the black van that was fast approaching. _

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry this took a while. I went through some stuff with graduation and job application. I was pretty depressed for a while, but I had this surge of inspiration to write for some reason. This chapter was definitely better in my head, but I hope the one I was able to come up with can satisfy you guys a little bit.


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